


Emeralds of Smoke

by Pharmockery



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: F/M, idk i just started writing, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22449196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pharmockery/pseuds/Pharmockery
Summary: "The troubles of the House, and the endless work, seem far away. The hands pause in their work, their owner seeing the smile upon Lord Hades’ face. A rare gift, saved only for the one who now moves to stroke his cheek once more, her slender thumb rubbing softly over his cheekbones."OrLord Hades reflects upon something long lost.
Relationships: Hades/Persephone, Hades/Persephone (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	Emeralds of Smoke

Soft hands upon his brow; the Lord of the Dead is at peace, the scent of lavender surrounding him as those soft, cool hands stroke upon his forehead. They move, then, to braiding the storm cloud of hair that surrounds his face, careful strands tied in neat plaits. He smiles, eyes closed, enjoying the sensation; for when was the last time he had felt so at ease? The troubles of the House, and the endless work, seem far away. The hands pause in their work, their owner seeing the smile upon Lord Hades’ face. A rare gift, saved only for the one who now moves to stroke his cheek once more, her slender thumb rubbing softly over his cheekbones.  
He dares not open his eyes; for if he opens his eyes, he fears he will see something he does not like. He hears her voice, feels the brush of her lips upon his brow.

“ _I did not think this such a luxury._ ”

She is teasing. He reaches one large hand up, to where he knows her own hand is, and envelopes it. It’s small, so small, and he almost opens his eyes. He knows what he _wants_ to see; the emeralds of her eyes, the softness of her features, _her smile_. What he fears he will see is that which he has seen so much before; fear, or sadness, or _something_ he can’t—or won’t—fix.  
The risk is too great. He stays still, although his stomach twists as she laughs. It feels off; but he can’t grasp _why_.

“ _I had assumed you would be busy at work._ ”

She’s gone back to braiding his mane, his hand stretched up to her, yet abandoned by her desire to play with his hair. He contemplates his answer, pulling it back to his side as he lays, quietly. There are things he _should_ say, or do; he should put her behind him and go to work, as his realm and responsibility demands. But his heart is at peace here, and what he says instead is this;

“Work is a poor substitute for such peace here.”

Again, it feels off. But it is true, isn’t it? She is quiet, for a moment, before her lips brush his gently, and he feels the whisper of her breath as she replies:

“ _A delightful answer, Lord Husband.”_

Oh, but he almost opens his eyes again, if only to see her so close. He must fight it, he _must_ , because now he’s all but convinced himself. Here, in this void, her eyes are filled with love for him. The uncertainty of the outside is too big a risk.

“There would be no greater way to pass the time.”

Her hands pause in their busywork, and then he feels her peck a kiss to his jaw.

“ _Oh, but you might make me swoon, love._ ”

Something flutters in his chest. He does not dwell on it, for he feels that if he concentrates too much on any one thing, that may bring it all down.  
Instead, he grips her hand again, running his thumb softly along her delicate knuckles. They have not seen battle as he has, and where his are rough and calloused from battle and work and the demands of managing an ever-expanding Underworld, hers are soft and gentle. They are warm, too, far away from the oppressive cold that pervades the Underworld. 

He thinks, then, that he should tell her he loves her. Because _he does_ , at least he thinks he does, because what else could the twisting in his chest be? Because even through everything, she’s _here_ , she’s braiding his hair, and stroking his shoulders, and—

A noise; a burble. Hades cannot place it, does not recognise it, although part of him feels like he _should_. It sounds like a child—an infant--?

“ _And so the Prince wakes!_ ”

Hades feels her weight lift away from their bed; soft footsteps that sound like the rustling of wind through tree branches, and then she returns. It all happens too fast.

A small hand pats on his side, and Hades _remembers_. He knows this is false; a dream, or a fantasy, not the Fates design. He knows she did not stay. His eyes open in a flash, like a lightning bolt from accursed Zeus, and he sees, just for a moment, the bright green of her eyes, and the mismatched ones of his infant son.

They dissipate like smoke, and he is awake, and alone, and his eyes are… wet?

The House of Hades is silent. The scent of lavender is gone. Her voice echoes in his mind, settling back into memory, a memory that he pushes firmly _away_. The workings of Hypnos have the whole House asleep, but now Lord Hades lies awake. He dries his eyes firmly, resolutely ignoring the conclusion that he was _crying_.

Her eyes. Green, like new sprouts. A colour he never sees in the House, neither then or now, and good riddance, he thinks. She had _gone_ , and she had _left_ him, left _the boy_ , and the weight of it falls back onto the great shoulders of Hades like a familiar shackle.

Lord Hades gently runs a hand over the untidy braid in his mane, an unsuccessful attempt from the previous night to keep it tidy in the grips of sleep. With a grunt, he pulls the loose knot out, gritting his teeth as a tangle snags at his fingers, and yanking it away with a hiss, throwing the back of his hand over his eyes in an attempt to chase the sleep he had lost.

_…She’d used to brush his hair when he had suffered a tiresome day, tying it back in braids with a needle and golden thread that shone through the dark tangles, singing softly as he dozed before her, and never once pulling a hair too tight…_

Hades grunts again, turning over onto his side and banishing away such thoughts. Did Hypnos not know how to cause _dreamless_ sleep? Was the childlike-god causing such mischief on purpose? Had the _boy_ put him up to it? He grinds his teeth in irritation as his mind wandered again…

… _She could terrify when she wanted to. A coldness over her features that reminded all who saw it that she was a child of Demeter. The House ran smoothly, and he could rest, and she was soft when she needed to be, and he_ lov—

No, he didn’t, he _hated_ her. _Hates_ her. Lord Hades knows his own mind. His own heart. He thinks of something else—anything else—and tries to sleep again. He thinks of what must be done when the House rises: the Shades must be spoken to, reports from Thanatos, and Hypnos, and Megaera must all be received…

_…Cerberus was never without treats when she was there, and it was she who brought him down from his post out of concerns for his age. Proud and noble in his outward appearance, the fearsome Cerberus nonetheless regressed to a puppy-like nature when she was around. And Hades had not minded…_

He gives up on sleep, rising from his bed. The thoughts are too much, and besides; there is much to be done, in any case.

There is _always_ much to be done.

And at the same time, never enough: because the moment his mind wanders, they wander back to her. Eyes like gemstones and a voice like a gentle summer breeze—but those are gone, because _she_ is gone.

And so he carries on.

Alone.

**Author's Note:**

> This all started because I couldn't get the mental image of Hades having his hair braided out of my head.
> 
> Fun fact, before conventional hair ties were a thing, Romans and Greeks are thought to have made complex braids by sewing threads through their hair with huge needles. https://www.journalofromanarch.com/samples/v21.110_adj.pdf


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